I'm a novelist.
Other people rest when they dream. Whenever I fall asleep, I drop into the books I write.
The worlds in my books are terrifyingly real. Everyone has a fixed appearance and a fixed soul.
But in every book, their identities are different.
I used to love writing tragic stories, filling my pages with regret and separation.
Everyone said I was heartless, that all I knew how to write were tragedies.
It wasn't until I entered my dreams again and again and watched their joys and sorrows with my own eyes
that my heart softened.
I began quietly changing the endings. Little by little, I went from writing bleak, tragic endings to becoming an author who favored sweet stories with happy endings.
But no one knew that across countless worlds in my books,
I was hiding an obsession I didn't dare speak aloud.
I searched for it in dreams and wandered through reality,
gradually losing the ability to tell which side was real and which was false.
When dreams and reality began to collapse,
I finally understood that the stories I wrote had long since rewritten me.
